Chapter Text
Azriel's head throbbed with the relentless pulse of a hangover, each beat pounding against the walls of his skull like a war drum.
He groaned softly, cracking open his eyes against the cruel light filtering through the unfamiliar room. Shadows danced lazily along the ceiling, offering no clues as to where the hell he was.
His senses slowly sharpened, peeling back the haze of alcohol and poor decisions. The scent of sex, sweat, and spilled liquor clung to the air like a heavy fog. A warm weight pressed against his side, another draped across his legs.
Turning his head carefully–because any sudden movement threatened to split his skull–he realized he was sandwiched between two bodies. One was a tall, muscled lesser fae with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, the other a slender nymph with tangled hair and a satisfied smirk even in sleep.
Azriel sighed, dragging a hand down his face. What the fuck had he done last night?
His shadows just sniggered.
Azriel groaned softly as he shifted, untangling himself from the sheets and limbs. When he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, a pleasant ache flared in his rear–a sharp reminder of the night's activities.
Heat crept up his neck and into his cheeks, a blush blooming against his normally cool demeanor. Cauldron boil me , he thought, scrubbing a hand over his face as if that could erase both the memory and the mortifying evidence of his… enthusiasm.
He shook his head and hurried to gather his scattered clothes, every movement sharp and purposeful as if rushing could somehow outrun the flush staining his cheeks. The nymph murmured something in her sleep, her body curling closer to the fae’s.
Azriel’s shadows stirred in silent judgment, swirling faintly as if sharing his embarrassment.
He dressed quickly, tugging his leathers back into place with practiced efficiency. By the time his boots were laced, his blush had cooled, leaving only the dull throb of his hangover and the lingering ghost of last night’s reckless indulgence.
He didn’t look back as he winnowed, leaving behind the messy, intoxicating heat of that room for the quiet, sober solitude of his apartment.
The silence hit him first, followed by the faint scent of cedar and steel that always lingered here. Home. Or as close to it as he'd ever get. He stood there for a moment, leaning against the edge of his kitchen counter, staring blankly at the wall.
His head still pounded, his mouth dry as sandpaper, but the ache in his chest was worse–a dull, gnawing emptiness that no amount of reckless nights or meaningless bodies could fill.
With a deep sigh, Azriel turned toward the bathroom.
Azriel let the heat of the shower soak into his aching muscles, steam curling thick around him as water poured over his head and down his back.
His shadows curled and shifted in the steam, whispering around him in their endless, murmured reports. Some brought useful tidbits—movements of Illyrian warbands on the borders, suspicious activity near Velaris, rumors of new alliances forming in the Spring Court.
Others flitted through fragments of more mundane occurrences: a merchant being overcharged at the docks, a pair of children stealing sweets from a distracted vendor, a musician performing on the Sidra to an enraptured crowd.
“ Focus ,” Azriel muttered, his voice low and rough as he ran a hand through his wet hair. The shadows quieted briefly, as if chastened, but their attention remained scattered, unruly.
One tendril flared with sudden interest, tugging Azriel’s focus. Eris Vanserra , it whispered, a hint of mischief in its tone.
Azriel exhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t tell them to stop. Instead, he leaned back against the tiled wall, letting the water pour over his face as the shadows spun their story.
Eris was lounging in the Autumn Court’s sun-dappled gardens, his crimson hair gleaming like polished copper in the sunlight. A smokehound lay sprawled at his feet, tail twitching lazily. The prince seemed entirely at ease, though Azriel knew better than to believe that.
He watched through his shadows’ fragmented perspective as Eris idly twirled a dagger between his fingers, the blade catching the light as he smirked at something one of his sentries had said.
“Typical,” Azriel muttered, shaking his head. Eris always managed to look like he owned the world, even when he was doing nothing at all.
The scene shifted—Eris now standing in a courtyard, sparring with a sentry. The elegant lines of his coat had been discarded, leaving him in a simple linen shirt and breeches. His movements were fluid and precise, every strike of his blade deliberate.
Azriel’s shadows lingered on the curve of his smirk as he disarmed his opponent with infuriating ease, the prince’s golden eyes glinting with satisfaction.
Azriel rolled his eyes. “Stop gawking and find something useful,” he commanded, though his shadows only seemed amused by his irritation. They flickered in agreement, reluctantly peeling their attention away from Eris to resume their more critical observations.
With a sigh, Azriel shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. Droplets clung to his skin as he reached for a towel, rubbing it briskly over his hair and shoulders. His shadows swirled around him, their whispers softer now, less intrusive.
But even as he dried off and dressed, the image of Eris sparring in the sunlight lingered in his mind. Azriel shook his head at himself, muttering under his breath, “I don’t have time for this.”
Azriel strode through the winding halls of the River house, his footsteps muffled on the polished stone floors. His shadows whispered around him, faint murmurs of fragmented information about troop movements and patrols.
His mind, however, lingered stubbornly on the image of Eris sparring in the sunlight. He shook his head, grumbled to himself, “ Focus .”
Azriel stepped into the room, his shadows curling tighter around him as if trying to shield him from the sharp light filtering through the wide windows. Rhysand didn’t look up immediately, his attention fixed on a document in front of him. Cassian, sprawled across the couch, glanced up briefly before returning to the dagger he was twirling in his hand.
“You’re late ,” Rhysand said without preamble, his tone clipped. He finally lifted his gaze, and the faint disapproval in his violet eyes was like a jab to Azriel’s already fraying nerves.
“I was doing…reports,” Azriel replied evenly, though he could hear the rasp of exhaustion in his own voice. He stepped forward, his movements stiff, and dropped into the chair across from Rhysand’s desk.
Rhysand arched his brow. “And yet, here we are, waiting on you. Again .” He slid a stack of papers across the desk with a deliberate motion. “We don’t have the luxury of falling behind, Azriel. You know that.”
Azriel’s jaw clenched as he reached for the papers, his gloved hands tightening on the edges. His shadows were unusually silent, as if sensing the tension in the room- or in him.
Cassian let out a low whistle. “What stick’s up both your arses today, sheesh .”
Rhysand ignored him, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands together. “Eris sent another message. He’s growing impatient. He wants an answer regarding our support for his claim to the Autumn Court throne. And frankly, I’m inclined to entertain him.”
Azriel looked up sharply. “You’re willing to back him after everything he’s done? After everything we know about him?”
Rhysand’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m willing to consider it if it means removing Beron and his toxicity from power. You’ve seen what Beron’s rule has done to Autumn—and to the rest of us. If Eris is the solution, then we will make him our solution. Do you have a better suggestion?”
Azriel’s hands tightened into fists in his lap, his nails digging into his palms beneath the leather of his gloves. His headache pulsed in time with his racing thoughts, each beat driving home the mounting pressure that had been suffocating him for weeks.
“No,” he admitted finally, his voice low and hollow.
“Then you’ll meet with him again,” Rhysand said, his tone final. “And this time, I want you to push him harder. We need details- real assurances that he can secure his claim and keep the other heirs in line. I don’t want to gamble the stability of the Courts on his ego.”
Azriel nodded stiffly, though the thought of another meeting with Eris churned his stomach. The last one had been tense, filled with veiled threats and slippery half-promises. The memory of Eris’s smirk was enough to make his headache spike.
“Anything else?” Azriel asked, his voice flat.
Rhysand regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. “Yes. You’re also going to infiltrate Beron’s court. We need eyes and ears on his movements- any indication that he suspects what’s happening. And while you’re at it, I want contingency plans for every possible outcome, including a full-scale war.”
Azriel blinked, his exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by disbelief. “You want me to do all of that?”
Rhysand’s eyes hardened. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Azriel stared at him, the weight of the demands settling like a stone in his chest. He shook his head, his voice barely audible. “No. I’ll handle it.”
“Good.” Rhysand picked up another document, already dismissing him. “Report back when you have something.”
Azriel stood, the motion slower than usual. His body ached, his head throbbed, and a cold emptiness had begun to spread through his chest, a quiet despair he didn’t have the energy to confront.
Cassian’s voice followed him as he turned toward the door. “Try not to overwork yourself, okay?”
Azriel didn’t respond. He stepped into the hall, the papers tucked under his arm, and let the door click shut behind him. The weight of Rhysand’s words, of the endless expectations, pressed down on him until it was hard to breathe.
His shadows whispered faintly, offering fragmented warnings and solace, but even they couldn’t pierce the fog in his mind. He stopped for a moment, leaning against the cold stone wall, and closed his eyes. For a fleeting second, he considered letting it all go—flying far away, disappearing into the night where no one could find him.
But the moment passed, and the burden remained. With a sharp exhale, Azriel pushed off the wall and winnowed to his office.
- ·················•·················•
The Autumn Court was beautiful this time of year. The leaves burned in shades of gold, crimson, and fiery orange, carpeting the forest floor in a mosaic of flame. The trees stretched high, their twisted branches interlocking like a canopy ablaze, casting fractured patterns of light and shadow on the ground below. The air was crisp, carrying the faintest hint of woodsmoke and damp earth, a stark contrast to the chill, restless shadows Azriel clung to.
He winnowed in without a sound, his shadows coiling around him like loyal sentries. The clearing ahead was illuminated by a low fire that crackled softly, its embers glowing faintly against the encroaching night. It was a strangely inviting sight, but Azriel knew better than to let his guard slip. He stayed in the darkness, scanning the space with sharp eyes.
Eris Vanserra was late.
Azriel’s shadows stirred restlessly, curling and whispering in the stillness. They didn’t trust the quiet, didn’t trust the night—but oddly, they didn’t seem to mind the one he was waiting for. If anything, they hummed with faint excitement, as if amused by the thought of the Autumn heir. Azriel, on the other hand, felt the familiar heat of irritation settle in his chest.
Traitors, he thought, though his lips twitched faintly at their antics. Why his shadows found Eris tolerable—let alone entertaining—was beyond him.
Then it came: the faintest shuffle of movement, followed by the soft rustle of leaves. A low, rumbling growl shattered the quiet, primal and menacing.
Azriel turned sharply, his hand already closing around the dagger at his side. From the shadows, a massive hound emerged, its thick onyx fur rippling like liquid darkness. Its glowing golden eyes gleamed with unsettling intelligence as its growl deepened, reverberating in the cold air. A second hound slipped into view from the opposite side, its steps calculated, circling like a predator on the hunt.
Azriel’s siphons flared, casting a faint crimson glow that bled into the shadows now writhing around him, ready to strike.
“Steady now,” came a drawl, smooth and sharp as the edge of a blade.
Eris Vanserra stepped into the clearing, his presence as commanding as it was infuriating. Dressed in impeccable Autumn Court finery—a burgundy coat embroidered with intricate gold patterns—he carried himself with an air of effortless arrogance.
His copper hair, loose and gleaming in the firelight, framed a face both sharp and regal, and his amber eyes met Azriel’s with a smirk that dared him to react.
“Call them off,” Azriel said, his voice cold and unyielding, cutting through the tension like steel.
Eris raised a lazy hand, the movement deliberate and precise. The hounds stilled immediately, though their eyes stayed fixed on Azriel, muscles still taut with restrained energy.
“You’ll have to forgive them,” Eris said, his tone a mix of mockery and charm. “They don’t take kindly to uninvited …guests .”
Azriel stepped forward, the shadows around him curling tighter as his gaze remained locked on Eris. “If I wanted your hounds dead, they would be.”
Eris laughed softly, the sound low and sharp, as if he found genuine amusement in the threat. “Of course, Shadowsinger. And if I wanted to keep you waiting longer, I would have. But here I am, punctual enough to keep this… partnership alive.”
The word dripped with disdain, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity beneath it. Azriel’s shadows flared slightly, a small protest at his rising frustration, but he tamped it down.
“Speak,” Azriel said curtly, his tone icy.
Eris gestured toward the fire, a casual wave of his hand. “Must we do this standing? The scenery here is lovely, but I don’t imagine you came all this way to admire the leaves.”
Azriel’s lips twitched in irritation, though he didn’t move. His shadows, however, seemed to settle, almost curling affectionately toward Eris. Azriel scowled internally. I don’t care how charming he is. He’s an arrogant snake.
Eris didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps he didn’t care. He stepped closer, his smirk fading into something more serious. “It’s time,” he said quietly, his voice steady now.
Azriel raised a brow, but his expression remained neutral. “Time for what?”
Eris’s amber eyes glinted like embers in the firelight. “Time to take my throne.”
The weight of those words hung heavy in the air. Azriel studied him, noting the tension in his posture, the way his fingers flexed almost imperceptibly at his sides. He’s hiding something, Azriel thought. But there was no denying the determination blazing in those amber eyes.
“And you still need Rhysand’s support,” Azriel said evenly.
Eris inclined his head, his movements measured, deliberate. “Your High Lord’s word is the only thing keeping me from acting preemptively,” he said, his voice calm but laced with unspoken urgency. “I need to know if that word still holds.”
Azriel didn’t reply immediately. His shadows stirred, their faint whispers brushing against his ears like wind through dry leaves, murmuring their curiosity about Eris’s steadfastness. It irked him more than it should—how much they seemed to enjoy the heir’s presence, as though Eris had somehow charmed even the incorporeal.
“I’ll deliver your message,” Azriel said finally, his tone clipped, cold. His dark gaze stayed fixed on Eris, unyielding. “But don’t mistake this for trust. Rhysand makes no promises.”
Eris’s expression didn’t falter, though a flicker of something— amusement , perhaps—crossed his sharp features. His amber eyes remained steady, calculating, as if weighing each word. Azriel’s jaw tightened, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface.
It was infuriating how easily Eris managed to get under his skin, how even the simplest exchange felt like a battlefield where Azriel was somehow always on the back foot. Eris had a way of delivering requests with an air of quiet smugness, as if every word from his mouth was a gift.
The way he stood—relaxed yet poised, exuding a quiet authority that suggested he knew the world would eventually bend to his will—grated on Azriel in ways few others ever could.
Eris’s smirk returned then, softer than before, less mocking, but no less irritating. “I wouldn’t dream of asking for promises, Shadowsinger. Just loyalty.”
Azriel’s shadows bristled, their movements restless as his irritation flared anew. He didn’t dignify the remark with a response. Instead, he stepped back, the movement precise and deliberate as his wings unfurled in one fluid motion. The cool night air rippled around him, and he yearned for the freedom of the skies—anything to escape Eris’s steady, knowing gaze.
As Azriel prepared to take flight, Eris’s voice followed him, smooth and lilting, as though savoring each word. “Until next time, Shadowsinger,” he said, the faintest edge of laughter curling in his tone. “Try not to miss me too much.”
Azriel paused for just a heartbeat, his teeth clenching as he turned to shoot Eris a glare sharp enough to cut. Eris only smirked wider, his amber eyes glinting with something far too pleased.
Azriel ascended into the sky, the crisp air biting at his skin as the Autumn Court forest spread out below him like a tapestry of fire and gold. Even from this height, it was beautiful—the kind of beauty that almost felt intentional, as if the land itself wanted to dazzle and disarm intruders. It was a pity such a place belonged to someone like Beron.
Or perhaps it wouldn’t for much longer.
Eris’s words repeated in his mind, his calm yet resolute declaration that he was ready to take the throne. There had been no hesitation in his voice, no doubt. Azriel could almost respect that kind of conviction if it weren’t coming from someone he so thoroughly disliked.
Disliked might have been too soft a word.
Azriel shook his head, focusing on the cold wind rushing past his face, the rhythmic beat of his wings as he flew higher. He didn’t want to think about the infuriating smirk Eris had worn or the way he’d made even a simple request feel like a game. And yet, the memory clung to him, like a burr caught in his leathers.
- ·················•·················•
Azriel’s gloved hands gripped the stone railing of the balcony, the cool surface biting through the worn leather and into his palms. The wind tugged at his hair, carrying with it the scents of Velaris—the earthy spices wafting up from the bustling markets below, the faint tang of salt from the Sidra’s gentle flow, and the subtle floral undertones that seemed to linger in the city like a whispered promise.
Above the distant peaks, the stars shimmered faintly, their light a fractured, delicate tapestry against the night sky. He focused on them, willing their quiet brilliance to distract him from the storm of thoughts twisting in his mind.
The creak of the balcony doors didn’t startle him. He’d known Cassian was coming before the sound even reached his ears. His brother’s presence filled the space like it always did—grounded, solid, and unapologetically loud, even in its silence.
“Trouble in Autumn?” Cassian’s deep voice broke the quiet, his tone casual but carrying the unmistakable weight of curiosity.
Azriel didn’t turn. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
The heavy footfalls of Cassian’s boots sounded behind him, scuffing faintly against the stone until he came to lean on the railing beside Azriel. The brush of his shoulder against Azriel’s was warm, steady, and unbidden, and Cassian smelled as he always did—leather and cedar, mixed with the faintest trace of sweat, as if he’d just come from the training ring.
His thick, dark hair was slightly disheveled, a few strands falling across his brow, though it only added to his rugged ease.
Cassian crossed his arms over the railing, his massive forearms flexing as he gazed out over the city. “You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, his tone light but laced with something softer, something probing.
Azriel huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m always quiet.”
Cassian turned his head, raising a skeptical brow. “Not like this.”
Azriel’s lips twitched faintly, but he didn’t offer a rebuttal. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the streets below, where the lights of Velaris glittered like scattered jewels. He didn’t want to talk about the Autumn Court.
He didn’t want to talk about Eris—about the heir’s sharp words and sharper smirk, or the way his presence lingered in Azriel’s thoughts like a splinter.
Cassian watched him for a moment, his dark eyes studying Azriel’s profile with a mix of curiosity and quiet understanding.
Then his lips curved into a grin, his voice dropping slightly as he said, “You know, Nesta and I were just saying how much we miss having you... at dinner.”
Azriel snorted softly, shaking his head. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
Cassian’s grin widened, and he turned, his body leaning closer—enough that their arms brushed again, but this time more deliberate. “Maybe we had something else in mind. You’ve been avoiding us. I think you’re scared.”
“Scared of what ?” Azriel asked, his tone mild even as his wings shifted slightly behind him.
“Oh, I think you know what,” Cassian said, his voice dropping into something warm and teasing, laced with promise. “But if you don’t, I’d be happy to give you a little reminder.”
Azriel’s lips quirked at the edge, but he didn’t respond immediately. He finally turned his head to meet Cassian’s gaze, and the sharpness of Cassian’s hazel eyes sent a faint thrill through him.
Before Azriel could speak, Cassian’s hand slid lower, his broad palm pressing lightly against the small of Azriel’s back. The touch was firm yet careful, grounding, but the proximity pulled Azriel even closer.
He stiffened slightly, heat rising to his face before he could stop it. Cassian tugged him a fraction closer, not giving Azriel the chance to regain his composure.
Azriel’s breath hitched in his throat as Cassian leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of his ear, sending an involuntary shiver down Azriel’s spine.
“You should come tonight,” Cassian whispered, his voice a rasp that seemed to slither through Azriel’s body, igniting something deep. “Nesta and I... would love to have you. In every way we can.”
Azriel swallowed, his heart pounding faster, the flush creeping down his neck. Despite himself, a soft chuckle escaped him. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” The words came out with a bite, but there was something in the undertone—something less certain, less guarded.
Azriel exhaled a laugh, his voice lower now. “I’ll think about it.”
Cassian pulled back just slightly, his hand still resting at Azriel’s lower back, the weight of it grounding. “Good. Don’t keep us waiting too long. You know how Nesta gets.”
Azriel shook his head, finally stepping back and out of Cassian’s grasp, though his lips curved in amusement. “I’ll be there. Try to behave.”
Cassian’s grin only deepened, but Azriel didn’t wait to hear the response. With a subtle shift of his wings, he pushed off the ground, the familiar pull of wind lifting him into the night sky.
He shot one last glance back, his expression a quiet mixture of amusement and something harder to define. The cool air rushed past him as he soared away, the city of Velaris spreading beneath him, its lights sparkling like a thousand tiny stars.